


Gjallerbru

by BroltaAMaga



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: F/M, Human Sacrifice, Multi, Multiple Partners, Sex, Vikings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 11:26:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13386825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BroltaAMaga/pseuds/BroltaAMaga
Summary: This is based off Ibn Fadlan’s account of a Rus (Swedish) Viking Ship Burial. This account was what the Vikings show based Earl Haraldson’s funeral on. The fact the show skipped the amazing image of a hand bridge is why I wrote this, but also added a little romance and fun smut. Gjallerbru is in short, a bridge to the afterlife from Norse Mythology.More here:http://www.vikinganswerlady.com/ibn_fdln.shtmlI personally think the only way to read this is while listening to Wardruna’s Helvegen, but you don’t have to.https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mAD9jfbIpMw





	Gjallerbru

Warnings: HUMAN SACRIFICE, sex, multiple partners, animal sacrifice, strangling, stabbing, and all of it non consensual since the main character is a slave. 

“Earl Bjorstein is dead.”

The first thing you had seen when you emerged from your tent was the dark clouds gathering in the distance, and a chill had pulsed through your body at the sight. You’d felt something like this was going to happen, so when Eilif, another of his slaves had told you this as you approached the dining tent, you were not surprised. Bjorstein had been injured in a raiding battle a few days earlier, but the wound had not seemed grievous.

“May he be with the gods,” was all you’d said, bowing your head but your heart had shattered at the reality. He had been a wonderful master; strong, powerful with the people of his earldom, but tender and sweet with you. He’d also been fair with both, always and you’d loved him for it. You knew you would be the one to volunteer to be sacrificed in his honor. Eilif knew it too and she reached out, squeezed your shoulder in solidarity. She was your friend and she would miss you here in the realm of the living humans, but she was proud of you for the honor you would take upon yourself in a few days.

You, Eilif and the other slaves soon had the first meal of the day prepared, but you knew to keep it warm, the dishes banked in the ashes of the fires for as the other people in the camp rose, the word of Bjorstein’s death would be announced and plans for his burial would be made. You knew it was your last working day and as you rolled your sore shoulders, you were glad for it.

Soon enough, the crowd of Rus had all awoken and assembled for the meal. Brattr, Bjorstein’s younger brother and right hand man, rose and addressed the group.

“What you may have heard, is true. Our great leader, Earl Bjorstein has passed.” 

A wave of gasps rippled through the crowd as some of the unknowing people first heard of his death. You looked at his wife, Gudrun, elegant and tragic in her grief. She was dressed in her best, a luxurious azure gown, furs and jewelry, as if for a great feast, but she looked like she’d been up all night and her eyes were red rimmed with crying. She stood resolutely beside Brattr, her six children behind them. All the children looked devastated, but only Harmsorgi, Bjorstein’s youngest, a towheaded son of five summers was unable to totally dam up his tears. He shook with the effort and your chest hurt, seeing his sweet, sobbing face that so resembled his father’s.

You didn’t have long to lament with him for It was then that Brattr asked, “Who among you will die with him? Who will honor him and escort him over Gjallerbru, the death bridge?”

You stepped forward without hesitation and you knew that Bjorstein, wherever he currently existed, was smiling. You were always his favorite. “I will,” you called out loud enough to be heard, but placidly enough to be solemn. All eyes turned to you and Gudrun nodded. She stepped forward then. “I would gladly walk with him if I could, but I am needed here, I must raise our children, help lead you,” she waved a hand over the people. She nodded again to you, her eyes thankful. “I shall loudly sing him over into his eternal existence. Thank you, Fjotra for going with him. You shall be honored only second to him for your sacrifice.” She nodded again, this time not at you, but at Eilif and Jódís, and they were quickly at your side, taking hold of your elbows. Eilif squeezed you again and you were grateful for its comfort. They led you out of the tent, but you walked eagerly, knowing where you were going.

The tent was beautiful, appointed nearly as if you were a queen, made of the finest deep purple silks and its interior, stocked with the finest mead and the richest white fox furs covering the soft mattress. Candles burned throughout, dancing along the walls. You tried not to gasp, and tamped down your amazement as you sunk onto the furs. All you’d ever slept on was straw in barns, dirt, rough wood floors and always in your cheap linen dresses. But now Eilif and Jódís stripped you, washed you clean from head to foot and slid the most beautiful light blue gown onto you. As Jódís did your hair in intricate braids that looped around and over your ears like a crown, Eilif poured you a large goblet of mead. They added gold cuff bracelets dotted with jewels and a necklace of thick gold links that took your breath away.

 

It soon all went to your head and you were lounging on the furs, singing, enjoying yourself more than you ever had. You were torn again, the songs bringing tears to your eyes through your laughter. Between cups of mead, the occasional small meal to sustain your strength, you had small fleeting moments where you thought of Bjorstein. You knew he had been buried right away, to preserve his body and his money and possessions were all being divided. One third went to his wife and daughters, one third to make rich funeral garments for him, and one third to supply the feast that was to follow for the next ten days in his honor.

It was soon dark and you could hear the revelry begin outside your tent that first night, everyone feasting and drinking, toasting him and honoring him with songs. Your ladies tied back the tent flaps and some of the crowd, realizing your arrival imminent, began to quiet and whisper. You took a deep, steeling breath and stepped out to face the crowd. At your appearance, the musicians all stopped, the shouting, singing and dancing all ceased and all eyes were on you as you walked through the masses. Tall torches had been placed in a line and you walked down it, the flames casting light and shadows upon your face and your curves. You reached the end of the line where a long table was set with food and drink. You were handed a full cup, turned to the crowd and drained it heartily. As you finished, a gasp for air escaping you triumphantly, the Rus all erupted in cheers and returned to their festivities.

You floated through the evening, drunk, singing and always flanked by Eilif and Jódís. You knew they were there to guard you from running away, but you had resigned yourself to your fate the moment you’d heard your master was dead. There would be no running. You would never dishonor him in such a manner. You watched a wrestling match between Brattr and Eigill, the torchlight gracing their athletic forms as they grappled, shirtless, and threw one another around in the grass. Brattr tossed Eigill over his shoulder, knocking the wind out of him. As Eigill’s eyes popped and he heaved on all fours, Brattr roared triumphantly, his hands over his head and the crowd cheered. Shining with fresh sweat, chest pitching, Brattr turned to you and his eyes flickered back and forth over your richly bedecked body and hair. Eilif leaned into you and whispered in your ear.

“Come,” was all she said and she and Jódís led you back to the purple tent. You swayed as they put you back upon the furs and washed your feet again, filthy to the ankles from the mud in camp outside.

Brattr pulled back the flaps of the tent with a dramatic swipe and your ladies left as quickly as he walked in.

“Fjotra.” His eyes were hot upon you, beautiful in your gown, gold jewelry and ornate hairstyle. You put your goblet down quickly and stood before him.  
“I am here to honor Earl Bjorstein,” he said. His voice was deep and you could tell he was nearly as drunk as you. “My brother.” His voice cracked just barely on the last word and so did your heart at his sadness. You swallowed and held out a hand, beckoning him to you on the snowy furs.

You reached behind your neck, untied the dress strings and bared yourself to him. He quickly slipped out of his boots and leather pants. You sat down and scooted back onto the furs, your knees bent and pressed together. All the mead was making your head spin, but you focused on Brattr, his warrior body naked before you. He was still sweaty, smelling simply, deliciously of maleness and effort, and all of him was ready to take you. He leaned down then and started to ease your knees apart with his broad palms. Your legs locked, trembled, and he stopped immediately. Your heart skipped- would he think you weren’t true in your promise to honor your master? They’d surely leave you alive to suffer in endless shame and you wouldn’t get to see Bjorstein when you did gratefully die someday.

Blessedly, Brattr understood and instead of parting your legs, he sat down beside you, reached up, cupping your face in his hands and kissed you sweetly. Your lips warmed to his and parted, letting him in. Your nerves all but disappeared as his tongue explored your mouth and his fingers grazed the edges of your breasts. You sighed right into his mouth and together, you sunk to the mattress. Brattr reached down to ensure you were ready for him and your heart warmed at how caring for women was clearly a familial trait. He smoothly rolled from his side onto you and you realized your nerves had switched to an eager want.

You gasped though as he slid within you and moaned as he stretched you, more than his brother ever had. You thought with a small smile against Brattr’s neck that it was probably best to leave that part out when you met his brother later in the afterlife.

He buried his head into your neck snaked his hands beneath your back, enveloping you, drawing you closer, making you one. As he filled you, he breathed his pledge into your ear.

“Tell him how I honored him, Fjotra. Tell him the pleasure I take and give you now is all for him.”

You rolled your hips against him, soaking in all of him, memorizing every word. He groaned at the sensation, but continued.

“Tell him as his brother here in Midgard, I loved him and will love him still until the day I meet him again in Valhalla.”

“I will.” You felt the first sparks of your release zapping in your belly just then, just barely a hint of it, like crackles of static in your hair as you combed it in winter. Brattr continued, thrusting within you, long and firm and slow.

“And then we shall feast and fight together as we did when we were children.” He shuddered against you then , sensations and emotions overwhelming him. He pulled his arms to from underneath you then, palming the mattress and flexed his entire body then in a hard thrust, willing himself to be strong and do honor to his brother’s memory. You knew he was amping up his power in response to feeling weak for being so emotional. Your heart warmed at it and you had to admit your body reveled in the hard strokes. You softened, melted at his show of force absorbing it, letting him know he was safe. You wrapped your legs around his back, gripping him firmly in your sanctuary.

At that, he cupped the sides of your face in his hands and kissed you, hard. You were sure your lip was bleeding from the crush of his and then as you tasted blood between you, your core heated.

“Tell him I love him, Fjotra as I love you now.”  
You whispered back “Yes, I will tell him.”

Those sparks within you now caught and smoldered. Your release was near and you struggled to stay sane enough to remember all Brattr was saying. The basest, most animalistic parts of you didn’t understand the importance of his words though and simply thumped and ground against him, chasing the climax. 

He breathed the next words onto your cheek, his lips pressed against your skin, his breath hot, desperate for you to know them, desperate for you to tell his brother. His release was also nearing you realized, his hips stuttering against yours, just as wanting.

“Oh Gods, Fjotra, tell Bjorstein I miss him. Tell him I tried to save him. I ran across the beach as fast as I could when I saw he was outnumbered. I slew two of them before that one got him in the leg.” At that, Brattr buried his face in your neck, and you heard him sob once as he heaved into you.

On that full body sob of his, you came, all around him, in a shivering throb. He spilled into you with bucking hips and a low howl like the saddest wolf.

You fell asleep in each others arms and when you woke a little bit later, he was gone.

The moon was still low in the sky though and the night continued this way, a few more men arriving to pay their respects. It went much into the next few days, men visiting, declaring their love for your master, and begging you to tell him how much they loved him while snugged between your thighs. Your body was aching, oversensitive and completely ravaged. Somehow, even though the men had numbered twenty two, you remembered their names and their faces and assured each one you would relay their love for Bjorstein. All their stories and pledges were honest and beautiful, and they were thankful, but no one brought you to near the pleasure and certainly not the heartache that Brattr did.

The tenth day since Bjorstein died was finally upon you. You were grateful for it, exhausted by the endless days of feasting, drinking and sex. Your ladies woke you up in the morning, arranged your hair and your dress again for your work was not quite through. They steeled your courage with another full cup of drink and gently guided you out.

You stepped out into the bluish dawn light, shivering a bit as the cold hit your bare arms, but head held high. The people had all gathered and were all waiting for you on the shoreline. You walked towards them, but your eyes were only on the boat tied to the dock. Even thought was a bit away and people crowded the shore, you were still high enough on a small hill that you could see your master. Your breath caught in your chest at his beauty.

Bjorstein had been removed from his temporary grave, dressed in his new fine clothes and laid out on a wide bench adorned with leaves and flowers on his best ship. His skin was darker in death, grayish, but even now he still had the handsome features and solid body that had served him in life. He was wearing a new ivory kyrtill, the hem of the tunic gracing just above his knees, and a heavy, emerald green olpa, the thick caftan graced with thick gold fasteners. The cold wind whipped through you then and you longed for his embrace in that warm clothing, that it would comfort you as you soon walked down the death path together.

As you walked down the hill, the boat fell out of view behind the crowds, but the people parted for you and if you craned your neck high, you could just barely see him again.

You were led to the side of the ship by your ladies and as you bypassed the dock, you wondered vaguely how you would get to Bjorstein. The last few people blocking your way parted then and your legs went liquid at the answer.

All the men that had been with you over the last few days were in two lines before you. The last few of them were up to their knees in water and they were all wearing their best möttull, a rectangular cloak, fastened at the shoulder, their sword arms left free. Your path to Bjorstein was through this line of men, their bare arms covered in blue-green tattoos, their swords and axes tucked into their belts, the metal flashing orange in the now rising sun behind you.

Then men looked at you, then reached across and each interlaced his fingers with the man across from them, palms up, forming a walkway. You slid off your bracelets and necklace and gave them to Eilif. Then the first two men dropped their hands low for you to step up and as Eilif and Jórís helped you onto the bridge of hands, you locked eyes with Eilif for just a quick farewell. She smiled, her lips a tight, thin line and her eyes full of tears. You looked away quickly before you lost your nerve.

Before you walked across, the first two men lifted you high, their hands raising to their shoulders. You were a young, thin thing and they barely strained under the effort. You held their heads for balance and looked off into the distance. The sight of the funeral ship in front of you, Bjorstein, all faded from view and suddenly you were in a great hall, full of people. You gaped as you saw your family, your father and brothers, uncles at the tables. They raised a cup to you and then you saw him, Bjorstein. “Come to me Fjotra,” he called in that strong, warm voice you feared you’d never hear again. “I see him!” you cried out, nearly losing your balance and grabbing for the head of the man to your right as your other arm stretched out towards Bjorstein. “He is in Valhalla and he calls for me!” The crowd erupted in cheers. You were lowered back to waist level and began walking across to the boat, your steps lightly bounding in the men’s strong palms. As you passed, your hands brushed lightly over their faces and shoulders for balance. As you touched each one, you said their names quietly to yourself to remember who you had to tell Bjorstein about.

Brattr was last, on your left. He and his partner, Fjollvar raised you up to their shoulder level now so you could board the ship. As your front, right foot stepped onto the edge of the boat, Brattr was the last to touch you, your left foot in his palm. Just before you left his touch forever, he stroked that hollow at the side of your heel so briefly but firmly enough you knew you hadn’t imagined it. You didn’t dare look back at him, but you knew his eyes were fixated intensely upon you as you stepped up to the deck. 

Bjorstein’s body and the Angel of Death were before you. You heard the strangled squeal of a chicken and a terrified whinny of a horse. You turned towards the source of the noise and saw people slaughtering animals on the beach. The pieces were brought to the boat, slick with fresh blood and quivering with the last remnants of life. They were tucked gently around your Earl and the blood ran on the deck, up to your toes, which wiggled in reaction to its warmth.

Brattr and Fjollvar were at your sides then, but the other men had picked up their shield and banged out an intoxicating rhythm with sticks upon them. The Angel of Death, tall, thin and not a pretty woman at all, loomed before you. She wore all white linen and a simple wide belt. Her loose hair blew around her in the wind as she pulled a dagger from its sheath at her waist, the metal snicking as she drew it from the leather. Brattr produced a long leather thong and looping it, passed it over your head. Your eyes met his as he slid it over your hair and snugged it against the base of your neck. His eyes were full of thankfulness and yours of acknowledgement. He passed the other end to Fjollvar and they both pulled slightly, tightening it. You met Brattr’s eyes one last time, this time yours thankful and his acknowledging. He nodded a tiny nod at you and closed his eyes to stem the threatening tears. You sucked in your breath and faced the Angel.

The moment was here and not a single person took a breath in it. You knew the men were beating their shields to drown out the noise in case you screamed, so other slaves wouldn’t be afraid to walk the path and honor their masters as you were now, but you knew you wouldn’t make a sound. You wanted this; you wanted Bjorstein and you wanted to die with him.

The sharp tip of the the Angel’s blade rested under your ribs and a small thrill pulsed through you. “Are you ready to give your life in honor of your master? Are you willing to deliver the messages from his men?” she asked you and you nodded. “And thus you go,” she said simply and as the blade slid into you painlessly, and the cord tightened around your throat, you closed your eyes and smiled. When you opened them, Bjorstein was standing on a lonely, cold hill, reaching for you. He took your hand, pulled you against his warm body and you walked up to the great hall. The doors burst open and you entered together.


End file.
